


Under Your Skin

by Blake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family Dynamics, Fighting, First Time, Guilt, High School, Loss of Control, M/M, PWP, Pushy Sam, Teenage Winchesters, Violence, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without thinking, I take what I want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Aesthetic Perfection for the title and lyrics. More thanks to all who read this.

They finished reading _Oedipus Rex_ in class yesterday, and it got Sam thinking about inappropriately fucking immediate family members, which is a subject that’s been relevant to Sam’s life for like, two solid years now, since he had his first coherent wet dream.

Now it’s a Thursday evening, and in between geometry problems Sam is watching Dean walk stupidly all over the house, back and forth, in and out of doorways, getting ready for a date, obviously. Girls are what make Dean shower and brush his teeth after dinner. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Dean look his way every so often with a smug grin on his face as if he wants to be asked where he’s going. Sam doesn’t need to ask. He doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction of his reaction when Dean tells him, in gross, intentionally vulgar detail, exactly where he’s going. But he doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction of the scowl trying to creep onto his face, either. He tries to keep his expression blank, oblivious.

He hates this. It’s not that he’s jealous of these girls. It’s kind of the opposite, actually: he has too much of Dean, wishes someone else had it too. He’s the one stuck knowing that Dean looks like an idiot. So much effort put into the performance of self-confidence, and Sam has to sit backstage, mopping up sweat and knowing all the injured bones and tendons Dean’s covering up with his stupid slick smile. He wouldn’t hate the girls if Dean was honest with a single one of them about any single thing; it’s weird, really, how Sam can count the number of friends Dean’s ever had on one hand, and all of them were before Dean finished high school, yet Dean doesn’t even try to make friends with any of these girls. Sam wouldn’t hate them if they made Dean less lonely. Or, maybe Sam would still hate them, but it would be different. He just doesn’t see the point in all the time Dean spends on performing for someone who doesn’t know him at all, when the person who knows him best is totally up for a late-night candy shoplifting spree at the mini-mart-- an activity Dean _honestly_ loves.

Sam complained when he was eleven, and Dean told him stop whining, you’ll understand later. When Sam was twelve, Dean must have gotten bored of having nobody to brag to because he started pinning Sam down, tickling him and making him listen to exactly what was so great about it, why sex was better than not-sex. Sam’s fifteen now, as old as Dean was when he first got laid, and he still doesn’t get what’s so great about having sex with somebody who doesn’t know anything about you.

Not that he doesn’t think about sex, because he does. Like, to an unhealthy extent, probably. He jacks off a lot, and not just to the thought of his brother. Sometimes he looks at porn, which is consistently tucked away in the same part of Dean’s duffel bag.

Sam’s not really doing geometry anymore.

“Hey Dean?”

“Yeah?” Across the table, Dean looks up with a dopey, hopeful look. He’s pulled a sock halfway onto his foot, and stopped, obviously waiting to be prompted to say something gross and make Sam squirm.

“I was thinking, sometimes I feel like I’m really lucky to have a single parent.”

Not what Dean was expecting. He still hasn’t finished with his sock. The eyebrow closest to Sam arches. “Really?” There’s doubt in his voice, because Sam rarely says anything nice about their dad.

“Yeah,” Sam says, all simple. “You’re a really good mom.”

Harsh silence explodes and settles over them on impact, Dean reacting to the insult before he’s really absorbed it. Then, the sonic boom. Dean’s face twists three different ways-- one for himself, one for their dad, one for their dead mother-- and Sam’s breath catches on it. “Not your fucking mom,” Dean says darkly. He tugs his sock all the way up and stands, straightening his black undershirt as if trying to iron out of existence the part where Sam basically denied the importance of both their parents.

“You basically fucking are.”

“Don’t cuss.”

“See?” Sam doesn’t grin. His assault is calculated, the work of hours. Not the content, he doesn’t even know where that’s coming from. The timing’s intentional though. His mom comment wouldn’t have got more than a scoff, maybe a middle finger, a few hours ago, but that was before Sam started messing with Dean’s shit. Doing Spanish homework in Dean’s bed, littering his pillow with the eraser shavings. Emptying Dean’s hair gel tube and filling it with the personal lubricant that’s always in the zippered compartment opposite the porn magazines. Calling out random numbers while Dean was trying to count how much cash they had left. “Accidentally” breaking salt lines. Stupid, immature stuff, the stuff that gets a rise out of Dean, but doesn’t get under his skin.

After a few hours of irritation, that’s the time to strike, hard, if you want to get under Dean’s skin.

Some days, Sam wants to get under Dean’s skin more than he wants anything else he can think of.

Dean’s mood is visibly ruined, but he’s walking around again, finding more layers to put on. The cheap-ass apartment their dad left them in this time is so small, Sam doesn’t have to raise his voice much to keep digging in. “You make me dinner. You drive me to school. You do my laundry.”

“Think I wouldn’t make _you_ do the laundry if you weren’t so freaky obsessed with going to school every day?”

“You support my academic ambitions,” Sam goes on. He hears Dean groan in frustration at his own defense being used against him. “You _worry_ about me, if I’m gone for like five minutes, you worry about me.”

Dean’s mumbling under his breath, so low Sam can’t hear it even in this tiny shithole. He gets up and walks over to the bedroom door so he can see Dean’s reactions. “You’re the only person who can tell if I’m having a bad day, and you know exactly what’s going through my head whenever John says stupid shit--”

“Don’t call Dad that.”

“--And you try and _protect_ me when he’s being an asshole.”

The inflated feeling in Sam’s chest is something between triumph and thrill as he watches the last of Dean’s vertebrae stack into a straight, tense line. He’s pissed. The muscles of his shoulders are stretching out his undershirt because apparently he’s been too distracted to successfully find whatever shirt he’s looking for. His body is held so tense, made hard just long enough to be broken; you can’t shatter sand before it’s been made into glass.

The next words come spitting out of Sam, who’s spent too many years bickering with his older brother to feel bad about saying things he probably doesn’t mean. Making Dean mad is always the thing he means to do. “And you’d do anything to make me happy. Nothing makes you happier than giving me something I want, huh, Dean?”

Dean turns abruptly, but not unexpectedly, and shoves Sam backward with a push to his chest. “What if punching your fucking lights out so you fucking shut up makes me happier,” he says in one short angry breath, “What then, Sammy? Huh?” Sam lets himself be pushed again, takes two steps backward. Away from Sam’s shadow, Dean’s eyes flash bright green under the overhead light.

“But you wouldn’t.”

And Dean doesn’t. He ducks his head and pulls his own hair with ten fingers. Sam sighs. He’ll have to keep trying.

“Too worried about me being safe, aren’t ya. Can’t watch me get hurt, right?”

Dean’s hands explode away from his face in an exasperated gesture. “That’s what brothers do, dumbass.”

“No, it’s not.” Sam hardens his face, even as Dean rolls his eyes and starts shaking his head, probably wondering why he’s even still here listening to this. “Not the way you do it, that’s not what brothers do.”

“Why are you even…” Dean holds his palms out in front of him, tries to fit on a truce-like smirk. “Look, whatever this tantrum you’re having is, it can wait. I got somewhere I’m supposed to be.” He starts to turn to walk away, and something inside Sam cracks; he doesn’t want to have lost this round. He knows he’s acting like a toddler, and doesn’t even know what he’s saying, just that it’s all coming from the instinctual place in him that knows how to push Dean’s buttons. Get under his skin.

“You’re much better than mom ever woulda been.”

Dean goes scary still. His profile is nothing but hard lines; even the curve of his eyelashes turns to stone. Up until now he looked caught in between fighting hard to ignore Sam and confusion as to why he wasn’t able to. That’s gone, now, and he’s listening to Sam without wondering why. Sam backs himself up against the wall behind him. “I’m glad she’s dead.”

That’s when Dean grabs Sam by the collar with one hand and pulls back into a fist with the other. His hand stops inches away from Sam’s face, but that’s not where Sam’s looking.

Dean’s face is ugly, control-less. His eyes wide and dark, his forehead a topography of wrinkles. Air held tight in his lungs coming out in occasional spurts through his teeth. His lips loose, but his jaw tight. His eyes lost. The green in them broken and glossy. The smell of his breath, unconsciously given. His eyes, burning straight into Sam’s and seeming to flicker at the same time like green flame. He never looks at his girls this way, Sam’s sure of it.

Sam feels like he can’t breathe, but his breath keeps coming out in heavy gusts anyways because his diaphragm is doing crazy things, his whole body is doing crazy things, pulsing in crazy ways when Dean’s looking at him like this.

See, two years ago, Sam had his first coherent wet dream, and in it, this is the way Dean looked at him.

Time’s passing, and Dean’s cooling off, the fist in Sam’s collar loosening. Sam let up for too long, Dean’s going to get away, and Sam needs him not to. But Sam can’t _do_ anything, as much as he wants to hit Dean for a reaction. It wouldn’t be the right reaction. It needs to be Dean. That’s the whole point.

“Real brothers hit each other,” Sam says, the words flying out of his mouth as if they mean anything. “That’s what brothers do. You gonna or not?”

And there, there it is, in the second before Dean’s fist makes impact. The look. There is nothing more thrilling in Sam’s world than the power of making Dean look like that. So furious that he loses all control. So beyond himself that he’s about to hit Sam harder than he _ever_ would let himself if he were holding back. Sam does this to him, makes him do something that goes against the prime function of his existence; he drives Dean so crazy, he actually _hurts Sam_.

Sam’s the only one who can make him like this. It feels like the insanest power in the world. It makes him hard. It has ever since Sam’s first coherent wet dream, two years ago, when he dreamt of Dean beating him up.

Bright flash of green in Dean’s eyes, and then Sam buckles forward, punched in the gut. He opens bleary eyes, and draws a ragged first breath against Dean’s shoulder just as it’s ducking out from under his weight. That’s exactly what he wanted. The air he’s sucking in tastes so clean. He pushed Dean over the edge.

Sam struggles to stand upright, hunching slightly to clutch his stomach to make the impact linger. He lets a smile slip out. He’s satisfied now, vibrating all over with the power of it, doesn’t care what Dean does with the rest of his night. Maybe he lets his smile get too big.

Dean’s hands grab him, bend him and Sam loses his balance but Dean has him and kicks a knee hard into the loose muscles of Sam’s side.

Sam shouts, small and surprised. Dean shoves him down, face first. Sam catches himself on his hands, then, instinctually, locks a hold around Dean’s shins and lunges forward.

They’re both on the dirty carpet now, and Sam laughs, just like they’re kids and Dean’s wrestling him for the remote.

Except Dean kicks his chest and looks down at him and Sam sees. He’s still got that look. Not the annoyed, gimme-the-remote look. The I-want-to-destroy-you look. The smile drops from Sam’s face. His hips drive forward, rubbing himself into the carpet, before he even thinks about it.

While Dean’s still kicking uselessly where Sam is holding his legs tight against his chest, Sam realizes he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Dean gets free somehow but he doesn’t go away, just shoves Sam dragging across carpet to where he wants him and crawls over him. Pure self-defense, years of play-fighting and training hardwired into him, Sam lashes out with his elbows and knee. Dean squeezes his arms tight, goes for a pin, but Sam topples him over. He can’t catch a breath, is stunned when Dean sends him thudding right back down onto his back. He stares at Dean’s downcast eyes, hidden by his lashes, trying to read something, but what he knows is, this isn’t like other times that they fight.

Usually, Dean would be smiling by now, tension dissolving into aimless rough-housing. Usually, if Sam stopped fighting back, Dean would smack him tauntingly into action, and they would keep each other annoyed. But right now, Sam has the distinct feeling that if he stopped fighting back, Dean would run for it, or, possibly, get in a few solid punches until he saw Sam bleed and then run for it. It’s like Sam’s keeping him here. Keeping him angry, and if he stopped, Dean would catch his control again. Sam could take one punch to the jaw, act hurt, and Dean would go.

He’s still blocking each of Dean’s jabs, and trying to throw him off where he’s straddled above Sam’s hips. But there’s something caught in his throat. Something like fear, but he’s not afraid of Dean beating him up. He’s afraid of being the reason Dean’s beating him up.

Biting his lip, Sam panics, because he never planned this far. He planned for getting what he wanted, getting under Dean’s skin, and he got that. That was intentional self-destruction. There was nothing to feel guilty about, no lasting effects except for a renewal of masturbation material. It didn’t affect anybody but Sam’s messed up self.

But he’s fighting Dean back, keeping him here. That’s not just being messed up, that’s indulging his sick self and dragging Dean into it.

Thing is, it feels so good that aside from the guilty knot in his throat, he’s not so sure he cares.

Between Sam digging his heels into the floor to push away and Dean curling fists in Sam’s shirt just for the sake of dragging him two inches, Sam’s backed up all the way to the wall by the front door. His head keeps getting jostled into the floorboard, forcing his neck into an arch that makes it hard to see Dean’s eyes.

He brings his knee up, his thigh smashing hard against Dean’s crotch so Dean is jolted forward and there’s a thud as his forehead smacks into the wall.

His various grips loosen, and that’s Sam’s chance to push Dean and pin him with his back on the floor, and Sam puts his hands on Dean’s biceps and leans, pins Dean’s hips with his own and fucking rubs into it because he can’t stop himself even though he should.

Sam cringes a moan back down his throat. He can’t tell whether Dean even noticed because his eyes are stuck shut like his head still hurts from impact. Sam forces himself to breathe, forces his hips still, wishing he knew what the fuck he’s doing.

Somehow Dean’s arms get free and before Sam can blink they’re snaked around his ribs and his body is being squeezed against Dean’s. It sends a shock through him, because he’s been growing so much lately, getting used to being almost as big as Dean in some areas, but right now, this sudden chest-to-chest, Sam feels like his ribcage is going to be swallowed by Dean’s own. Strong, thick arms across his back and a flash of being ten, watching Dean get dressed and wondering if he’d ever look as grown up as fourteen-year-old Dean.

Sam’s on his back, apparently zapped out of his mind for a brief second, which is all it takes. Sam tries to roll over again, but sealed this close together, it’s impossible to be the lighter body and stay on top. Natural settling, Dean’s got him covered.

Then Dean grinds his hips down into Sam’s. Through both their jeans, against his hip, Sam can feel that Dean is _hard_.

Sam’s body reacts instantaneously, hips moving before his brain can. Sam ruts up again and again into the warmth of Dean’s abdomen, wide eyes locked on where his own hard breaths are visibly fucking up the tufts hair on Dean’s bowed head. It’s unbelievable. It’s insane.

Dean rocks right back against him, slotted just perfect, grooves already worn by years of fighting, Sam thinks, losing his breath fast. He curls his hands onto Dean’s shoulder blades and tries to pull him down more even though there’s no space between them. It’s painful how hard he is, he just needs, just needs…

Dean grunts against Sam’s collarbone. So loud, it breaks. Dean goes still, scared or startled by his own voice or something, but Sam doesn’t, can’t stop. Dean’s pushing instead of pulling now so he’s easy to topple, Sam’s rolling hips pushing Dean flat on his back under him. Sam gets his hands on Dean’s face, they get slapped away for a second, but then he gets them back, pushing the skin of Dean’s face until those green eyes flare open and Sam sees how fucking wide and huge and control-less they are.

Maybe somewhere inside Sam is doubting whether he should be doing this, but if he doesn’t keep grinding his dick down against Dean’s, he’ll vomit or die or something unimaginable, he has to, just has to.

The green disappears as Dean’s eyes shut again. He has Sam’s chest tight in his arms again and Sam likes that, likes Dean holding him so close he can barely even move his hips enough to…

“Fuckin want this, Sammy?” Dean says, so broken-quiet it’s like he’s talking to himself, but his hand, his hand is moving and that’s all for Sam, quick drop down between their shirts to palm Sam’s zipper and then rub up against his dick, so hard perfect.

Sam can’t breathe, drops his head onto Dean’s shoulder. Doesn’t even care that Dean’s rolling them and pinning him again. Loses all muscle control when Dean starts grinding down sharp, aimed, like he knows what he’s doing, brief thought skittering across Sam’s mind about how many times Dean’s fucked before, how he knows what to do, showing Sam, so Sam’ll know too.

Hand burning under Sam’s shirt, totally unbelievable what Dean’s doing to him. Making a fist in his skin, pushing his mouth hot up against Sam’s jaw. Sam’s lost, can’t fathom how he hasn’t come yet, overwhelmed beyond even knowing what direction he’s falling.

Sam’s chest feels like pavement cracking when Dean shouts out, wet, against his neck and Dean’s body goes insane above him, stiff, convulsing, throbbing under Sam’s hands and there’s new heat against Sam’s jeans and holy shit Dean’s _coming_ , coming _first_ , on _Sam_ , and is this what dying feels like?

It hurts, coming back. But it’s also funny, and Sam giggles his way to the surface. It’s not possible to feel this much. Feel this good? Sam’s doing the impossible. He hears himself laughing all loosely. He opens his eyes, waits for the sparks of light to stop blocking his vision.

He stops laughing when he sees Dean. Dean’s eyes are set fierce on him, making Sam feel scrutinized, feel like a meal, feel perfect.

Then, Dean’s gone. Sam can’t feel his own bones, so he can’t tell how Dean gets up. All he can tell is that Dean is standing above him, and he’s still on the floor.

Suddenly, Sam regains the ability to worry. Dean’s sweaty face. His mussed-up hair. His sweat-stained shirt, the chest beneath it rising and falling as he catches his breath. The wet across the crotch of his jeans. Sam stares at the spot. He should have remembered, Dean is fucked up, too. Dean’s so fucked up he’ll get off on giving Sam what he wants, even if it’s something terrible. He’s so fucked up he’ll _come_ , giving Sam what he wants. Sam should have remembered, he’s not the only fucked up one here.

Feeling greedy and guilty, but not quite remorseful, Sam keeps looking up at Dean, who won’t meet his eyes. In fact, when Sam regains sensation in his limbs and shifts his foot to be flat on the floor, Dean visibly startles and heads for the bathroom. Sam watches him go. He hopes he didn’t do too much damage.

Next time, he’ll stop when he just has Dean mad. That’s what he wanted, when he was still smart enough to have a plan, and a sense of proportion. Getting under Dean’s skin should have been all he asked for, all he took.

Slowly, he stands up. His body feels incredible, almost as light as it is heavy with guilt. He’s going to change clothes, and get back to his homework. Dean will be gone within a few minutes-- not on his date, Sam knows that much, but he’ll be gone, driving like he does when he’s pissed. Sam feels bad about ruining Dean’s mood, but he doesn’t feel bad about making him miss his date. Not like he was going to make friends, anyways. Not like it was going to make him less lonely.

If Sam treads carefully enough, he’s pretty sure he can keep Dean from pushing him away, after this. They’ll pretend it didn’t happen, because Sam wants Dean to stay close, and Dean will _come_ giving Sam what he wants. Sam just needs to want things that don’t send Dean onto the highway until dawn.

Weird thing is, as he drifts, on unreliable legs, past the bathroom door, he hears Dean mumbling, _Sam_ , scattered in a rubble of other fragmented sounds.

Sam’s stomach drops, the fear of having broken something.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel that it's complete, but I've been asked to continue this one. If anyone else shares the sentiment, would you please leave a comment and let me know? Thanks for reading!


End file.
